


A Fridge Too Far

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: League of Gentlemen (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, ollie is a big adorable trouble magnet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has been charged with looking after Ollie while he recovers from episode 3.3</p><p>If Phil doesn't kill him first, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The worst part was that is wasn't even up for debate.

“C'mon, you know he's like this because of you. I mean, it _was_ hilarious, but getting his legs smashed in was a bit much.” Dave sighed. “Anyway, I can't have him at my place. Abby'd go spare.”

“But he likes you so much more than me,” Phil hissed, mindful that it was like saying he was the tallest midget. Dave didn't go for it.

“Besides, you've got space. Robert's just moved out, hasn't he?” Dave noticed Phil's look. “Sorry. But it's true, isn't it?”

Phil wiped a hand over his eyes. “I'm going to end up killing him, you know that, don't you?”

“You and anyone else who lives with him. I'm surprised Linda didn't perform a coup de grâce with the wedding cake.” Dave's voice took on a wheedling tone. “There's got to be _something_ bearable about him. Otherwise, how could he still be alive?”

They both looked over at Ollie, who was trying to wheel his chair over a snail but kept missing. They looked back at each other.

“Not it,” Dave said, and scarpered.

 

“—o god, the agony, the unmitigated torment of my body and soul,” Ollie wailed as Phil grunted him up the stairs. “Mine eyes have seen such–here, could you watch it? You nearly bumped my elbow on the rail.”

Phil rolled his eyes, too out of breath to threaten Ollie with bumping something far more precious. He kicked the door open, Ollie draped bridal-style over his arms. Ollie wrinkled his nose.

“Eeurgh, it's so _small_.”

“That's what she said,” Phil gasped, bent double.

Ollie looked up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Phil strewed him on the couch, then left to get the wheelchair. When he came back, Ollie was fumbling around with an old zuni figurine that had been Robert's. Phil had forgotten about it until the horrible moment of clarity when he saw it in Ollie's hands and knew it would not be long for this world.

“Don't–” he began. Ollie looked up, and a spear came instantly away in his hand.

“What?” Ollie asked again, eyes big and innocent behind his glasses. He looked between the mahogany figure and Phil, and a lightbulb went off behind his eyes. “Oh, I'm sorry. Is this a–” his voice dropped to a whisper, “gay thing?”

Phil groaned, letting the chair slip from his hands.

“Never mind,” he said, sitting on the other end of the couch, palms over his eyes.

There was a blissful moment's silence.

“Soooo, when's tea?” Ollie asked.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was worse than watching a child. Phil didn't really care for children, despite his chosen profession, but he would gladly tangle with the wildest Vasey brat than deal with Ollie when he was in full-voiced whine. The korma was too spicy, there was no dessert, nothing good was on the telly, his leg itched beneath the cast, and an endless stream of others. Phil was just eyeing the hefty, clublike base of the zuni figure when Ollie asked, “when's bedtime?”

Phil had to help him brush his teeth, button his little pj's and tuck him into the covers. Ollie wouldn't sleep on the couch so, horror of horrors, Phil found himself tucking Ollie into Robert’s side of the bed. Ollie slipped his face-smothering glasses off and snuggled down into the covers. Phil left to do the washing-up.

How many weeks, he wondered as he rinsed out the kettle, how long could he stand Ollie without going all Baby Jane on him? Didn't Ollie have family? He never talked about them. Perhaps that was why he was still stuck on Linda.

There was  _one_ upside to all this: while Ollie was playing the martyr, it left less room for his lightning-flash fits of rage. He'd attempted an outburst after tea one day, and only ended up hitting his elbow against the endtable. He'd spent the rest of the day whimpering pitifully.

Phil attached a bit of dried cheese with a plastic scrubby. When Ollie closed stopped his endless barrage of insensitive questions, he was almost tolerable.  _Could_  he make this work?

Ollie seemed out when he came back in the room, so Phil slipped out of his trousers and shirt and got in on the other side. He tried to align his body so that no part of it came anywhere near the other body in bed. Phil closed his eyes and tried to drift away.

“Phil.”

He groaned.

“Phil, why am I in your bed?”

Phil pressed the pillow over his eyes. “I've got nowhere else to put you.”

“Oh.”

Phil prayed for silence.

“Phil?”

Phil sighed. “Yes, Ollie.”

“Are you going to sleep with me?”

Phil managed to restrain himself from laughing hysterically.  _Oh Ollie, the way the moonlight gleams from your birth-control spectacles, your horrific sweaters, the dippy look on your face when you ask if I haven't tried just bumming women, who wouldn't go for that?_

“No. Go to sleep.”

“'Cause I don't want raping, thank you.”

Phil glanced over.

“Look. Ollie. I'm not—attracted to you, okay?”

“Oh.” Then, in a tone of mild injury, “why not?”

Phil screamed into his pillow.

“Look you're nice and all, but I like you as a—” Phil managed to refrain from saying  _an obligation_  and substituted, “a friend.”

“Oh,” Ollie said again. It was hard to read his tone. Phil snuggled into the covers, hoping the conversation was over.

“You mean you actually like me?”

“Go to sleep Ollie.”

“I just get the general impression you and Dave don't think much of me.”

Phil cracked a lid in the dark.

“But hey, you took me in...so you  _must_  like me... right?”

Phil waited. Nothing more came.

“Good night, Ollie.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Once the initial urge to strangle him subsided, Ollie was passable company. He was rather childlike in his mien, and sometimes he genuinely did not mean to be insulting. He also suffered from the misconception that his injuries made it impossible to dress himself. Phil struggled with his buttons while Ollie prattled on about a new play on overcoming adversity. _A Fridge too Far_ , or something along those lines.

Since Phil was in-between jobs, he decided to take Ollie around Camden with him. Around the fiftieth shop without wheelchair access, Phil was ready to kill him again.

“—can't believe, in this day and age, that it's not standard!” Ollie tore another chunk off a blintz. “You want any of this before I finish it off?”

“That was for both of us, Ollie.”

“Oh. Well, you might have said something.”

Phil was eying a tempting hill when he spotted something even worse than Ollie's prattling.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, “Tish.”

Ollie around, confused. “Where? Oh lord, did I roll through it?”

Phil went to flee, and then realized he had Ollie with him. He was contemplating diving behind a decorative urn when Tish spotted them, squealing like a diseased manatee.

“Baaaaabes, how's it slumming?” she trotted over to them, navel-stud rattling like a cowbell.

Ollie's look of utter horror was almost worth it. Phil laughed, which turned into a weary sob when Tish grabbed him, laying air kisses on each cheek.

“Hello, girlfriend! I haven't seen you in ages.” Tish elbowed him. “who's this, a new guy?”

Ollie was struck, staring up at her in mute horror. Phil coughed.

“Actually, this is–this is a friend Tish. Ollie Plimsolls, Tish Guppy.”

By now Tish had noticed Ollie's wheels, doing another sick sea mammal impression.

“Oh, are you _crippled?”_ A predatory gleam shone in Tish's eye. “Oh I just _love_ special people!”

She bent low. “HOW. ARE. YOU. MY. NAME. TISH.”

“Tish, he's crippled, not deaf,” Phil said.

“Oh pshaw.”Tish pet Ollie like a toddler pets a dog. “Who's a brave boy, hmm?”

Ollie turned a big, teary gaze onto Phil. “Help. Me.”

Phil couldn't contain his grin. “Tish, I've got to go. Ollie's got his pill...time coming up.”

Tish continued stroking Ollie's hair heavily. “you've landed a cute one this time, Phil. Captive audience, eh? Or did you just do this last night?” She elbowed Phil in the kidney. Phil sidestepped it and took up Ollie's handles.

“Well, hate to run, but things to do, people to medicate, etc.,” he said. Tish slapped him on the bottom.

“Don't be a strangler, now! We have to have a cuppa and a girl-to-girl talkie laters!”

Phil made a series of ambiguous noises and carted Ollie off. Ollie, for his part, seemed traumatized into silence.

“What was that?” he asked finally.

“That was Tish. If you're lucky, she only happens once a month.”

“She touched me,” Ollie whimpered.

“Don't worry, the bruises should fade after a while.”

“And what was that, the way she talked to me? I'm not retarded.”

“No, nor are you PC.” Phil parked his chair and put on the brakes. “You alright?”

Ollie was coming back to himself, Phil could tell because he was getting more incensed.

“What right does she have to speak to me like that? And you?”

“You get used to it.” Phil tried to arrange Ollie's hair back in place. “Anyway, she means well.”

“No she doesn't,” Ollie insisted, “those of us that know cripples have enough respect to pretend they don't exist. And you're not a girl.”

Phil redid his Clark-Kent forelock. “Good observation.”

Ollie was peering up at him, wide and sincere. “You oughtn’t let her talk to you like that.”

Phil pinched his cheek a little. “Try and stop her.”

“You want me to?” Ollie sat up further. “I can. I'll show her—”

“No,” Phil cut in quickly. This was getting ugly, fast. “Just...live with it. We all do.”

Ollie was looking at him reverently. “Phil...is this what it's like to be a gay?”

Phil laughed, putting a hand over his face. “Ollie...no. Just no.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a few weeks before Ollie was well enough that Phil could leave him alone and go to the pub. Unfortunately, this meant that Ollie felt well enough to _go_ to the pub. Phil formulated several very good(he thought) arguments of why it was a terrible idea. Ollie forwent argument and just whined until Phil took him along.

Phil puffed along, resentment burning in his gut like bad curry. Ollie prattled on about his first time going to “a gays bar.” He was like a little budgie. Phil pondered whether he should've just gotten him a mirror to bump heads with.

Ollie's face fell as they went inside.

“This is it? It looks so...normal.”

“Yeah, but the gent's is a TARDIS.” Phil dropped the barkeep a wink.

“But how are you supposed to know when you walk in? Suppose a straight man walked in here?”

Phil dropped his voice down to an ominous whisper. “Then we'd sense it. And we'd fall on him like a murder of crows and turn him...gay.”

Ollie blanched.

“Kidding! Christ, Ollie.” Phil pulled up a stool next to him. “Look, it'll be fine. The worst that might happen is you’ll get a few free drinks out of this.”

Ollie looked down, face childishly drawn.

“Fitting that this is the first place we've gone with a ramp,” he muttered.

Phil sipped a Ringo Starr(sans pineapple ring) and gradually managed to forget life for a while. Hell, take away the fact that Ollie couldn't get out of the chair, and you were left with Ollie resentfully muttering into a Shirley Temple, which was Ollie at any point in time.

A bloke with frosted tips was sat at the end of the bar. He was chatting with a stocky ginger, but then he looked up and Phil met his eyes. It _happened_. The logistics of bringing someone home with Ollie were temporarily forgotten. Phil downed his drink and shook his empty glass. The other man smiled and signaled the bartender.

Phil nearly swallowed his glass in his desperation to finish his drink. Harold(that was his name, Harold) came over when he saw that. The age-old dance played out: 'thanks for the drink,' 'what's a nice thing like you doing in a place like this,' small talk dwindling to sweet nothings. Phil sat so close they bumped hips. Harold put a hand on his thigh, and his pulse jumped accordingly. The night was going decadently well. Phil could feel Harold’s warm breath blow across his face as he laughed. They were close. The kiss was moments away.

Then Ollie leaned in with a cranky, “excuse me.”

Phil froze. He had actually forgotten Ollie existed.

Harold look bemused. Ollie wheeled out so that he was in front of them.

“What do you think you're doing?” he asked sharply. “you think you can just come over here and paw him? You think he's a piece of meat?”

Harold laughed uncomfortably, looking from Phil to Ollie inquisitively.

“He's not just some one-night stand. Go cruising elsewhere, leave him alone.” Ollie delivered this in a stage roar, with more convincing diction than “is this a dagger I see before me?”

Harold shrugged and stood up, walking back to his place at the bar. Phil remained frozen, openmouthed, glass dangling from his fingers. Ollie gave a self-satisfied nod.

“Sorted him out, didn't I?”

Phil took off the brakes and wheeled Ollie off, looking for a convenient cliff. Ollie seemed obliviously proud.

“Coming up and manhandling you like that. Who does he think he is?”

“ _Enough_ , Ollie,” Phil growled. Ollie looked up, hurt look on his face.

“You're not mad, are you? _I saved you_.”

Phil stopped abruptly. “Saved me? From my first successful foray into the dating pool since Robert left me?”

“Phil, Phil, Phil.” Ollie shook his head condescendingly. “He wasn't going to _date_ you. He just wanted you for some unattached sex.”

Phil stared at him. “So?” he shrieked, echoing off a nearby church and scattering pigeons.

Ollie shushed him. “You don't want that, trust me. It's much better to get in a long-term relationship with someone. _Then_ you can worry about the sex.”

Phil clenched and unclenched his hands. His fury was steaming away, leaning him achy and slightly puzzled.

“What?” he asked.

Ollie smiled. “Trust me, it's much better to get attached to one person for the rest of your life. It's the best thing in the world.” His face clouded over. “I thought I had that with Linda...and even though it wasn't real, it was...I was _happy_.”

Phil stared at him.

“Trust me. You don't want a bunch of no-strings-attached sex. It might seem great at first, but it'll get old.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?” Phil couldn't keep the sarcasm from his voice. Ollie straightened his glasses and gave him a look of preposterous severity.

“I am a playright,” he said, “I make it my business to live the lives of others and yes, I have traveled the path of decadence until I was sick with experience.”

Phil laughed until he was sick.

The worst thing about Ollie, Phil reasoned on the way home while Ollie dozed off on Phil's knitted cap, was that he made it impossible to really hate him.


	5. Chapter 5

When Dave phoned one morning, Ollie answered. Phil was buttering toast for both of them.

“Phillip Proctor's residence.”

Phil chuckled a little.

“Dave!” Ollie's tone grew warm. “It's good to hear from you. We've been having the best time, no need to get jealous, but I think I might take the theater in a new direction.” A pause. “I'm thinking of incorporating the chair _into_ the play.” Another pause. “Well, I won't need it forever, but that doesn't mean I—” Another pause. “You want to speak to him? He's busy.”

“Ollie,” Phil chided gently, trading him the phone for a slice. “Hullo?”

“So you've found a new best friend?” Dave sounded amused. “just wait until the honeymoon period's over.”

Ollie was reading one of Phil's new magazines, obliviously slopping honey onto the pages.

“If it gets much better than this, I’ll scream,” Phil said.

Dave giggled. “Well, you'll be happy to know I called his doctor.”

“And?” Phil could feel Ollie's stare in his back.

“He's due to come out of that thing. No reason he can't be hopping and skipping about stage again.”

“Oh.” it was hard to say how he felt about that.

“Don't hold back. I know you're thrilled.”

“Well, where's he going to stay after?”

“His flat's still open. No reason he shouldn't be able to manage.”

Phil watched Ollie try to turn a stuck page, ripping the paper. “Right, no reason.”

“Cheers, mate. Keep hope, won't be much longer.”

“And what did you say?” Ollie asked later.

“You heard, I didn't say anything.” Phil took another bite of shreddies.

“Well, I’m sure I can tell him when I see him later.” Ollie said absently.

Phil noticed the lack of detail in that statement. “Tell him what?”

“It's out of the question, of course.”

Phil sighed. “Ollie, it's not like you were in a plane crash. You can—and should—do for yourself.”

Ollie got sulky. “Well, what if I have a relapse and there's no one around?”

“What, your leg spontaneously re-breaks?” Phil snorted. “Come on, don't you want to go back?”

“Not to _that_ place.” Ollie had that Kubrick stare again.

Phil dropped his spoon. “Look it's been—” unbearable, humiliating, agonizing, _stupid_ , “—nice, with you around. It has. But if I’m going to move on with my life—”

“And your _career_.”

Phil blinked. “What brought that on?”

Ollie guiltily held up an envelope. Phil ripped it open.

“I got a callback?”

“Only came this morning,” Ollie said stubbornly, “I was going to surprise you.”

Phil snorted.

“Really, I was.”

“And you only just mention it now?”

“It's not like hiding it would do anything. I bet you get loads of callbacks.”

Phil pondered the rift between Ollie's perception of his life and reality.

“Thanks,” he said briefly.

“Really.” Ollie pointed with his fork. “you're a good actor Phil.”

“Fine.”

“Really.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t belong in my troupe.”

The words were said with such naked despair Phil was forced to take them seriously.

“Ollie,” he said patiently, “I know you're sad that I’m finding other work—”

“I know I'm hard to be around,” Ollie interrupted. He was looking at his hands. “Linda told me, long before either of you signed up. She said she didn't half know whether she wanted to kill me or kiss me. And you've been good about it, but I could tell there were times where you wanted to tell me to calm down.”

Phil opened his mouth, thought the better of it, and shut it again.

“I don't write plays people want to watch. I write plays I want to play. I don't have a future. You do.”

Ollie swallowed and sat back. Phil took a little breath in the silence.

“—of course it helps when you bum every director you come across—”

“Ollie,” Phil groaned, and tossed a napkin at him.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The front door banged open ominously. Ollie and Phil stood in the doorway, peering into the gloom of Ollie’s unoccupied flat.

“Well,” Phil said, trying to ignore the reverb his voice made in the empty space. “Home sweet home.”

Ollie had a look of brittle cheer on his face. “Are you sure you don't want to come in for a bit, I could make some tea.”

Phil coughed into his hand. “Oh no, I was, I just, you know, have that thing—”

“Huh?” Ollie looked genuinely bewildered. “Oh, right...you must have told me about it. Busy, busy bee, you are.”

“That's right,” Phil said, and forced a laugh.

Neither of them moved from the doorway.

“You want help with the crutches? Phil asked.

“More than anything, my knee itches like a bastard.” Ollie still wore a flexible brace over one knee, one that annoyed him than the big plaster beasts that had been on his legs for months. Phil braced Ollie as they crossed over the threshold, reminding himself that he'd have to start going to the gym again.

Ollie sat down on a heavily-embroidered sofa set. It looked like something Phil's mum would buy. In fact, the whole flat was decorated as if occupied solely by a mumsy woman. Phil wasn't sure which depressed him more: the thought that Ollie had conceded this much space to his wife's decorative touch or that he'd left it this way so long after she'd gone.

“Well, tea's in the cupboard,” Ollie said. He hobbled to the kitchen. He hobbled back out again. “Erm, no it's not.”

Phil sighed. “You want me to pop round the shops?”

“No, no, you've got something to do,” Ollie said with grand air, “and I’ve got to...I’ve got writing I need to see to, yes. Lots and lots of it.”

“Yes,” Phil said. And then again. “Yes.”

Ollie hobbled to the drapes and opened them. He might not have bothered.

“I suppose,” he began timidly, “since I'm...not in your hair anymore, I suppose you'll go find someone.”

“I might,” Phil promised.

Ollie assumed a mock-stern demeanor. “Well, make sure you don't just fool around. Don't forget to ask the really important questions.”

“Like ' _who was your favorite Doctor_ '?”

“I was being serious.”

“So was I.”

Ollie snorted and shook his head. It wasn't quite a chuckle.

Phil suppressed a smile and stood up from the couch. “Well, don't be a strangler, now.”

Ollie laughed this time.

He'd enjoyed their little in-jokes. He'd enjoyed the whole thing, in fact. Ollie was not unlike the possessive kid brother Phil had never asked for, only wanting to be included in everything. God, if Phil could just get him laid, he might even become bearable.

Phil gave a little wave and walked straight out the door without looking back because he was suddenly very sad and it was completely stupid, he was going to see Ollie again, but now nobody would steal his covers and go on long bitchy rants about the theatrical scene with him and now there was no one to bounce audition monologues off of and dear god, was it raining on his face?

 

Later that evening, Phil was deep into his cups when he found a familiar face staring from across the bar. Without waiting for the signal, Harold came over.

“Thank god,” he said over the music, “you finally ditched your little lap dog.”

Phil made a slurred noise that may have been a word, most likely not.

“So let's get to know each other,” Harold said in a happy shout, “what makes you tick?”

Phil burped a little. “Who's your favorite doctor, Peter Davison or Tom Baker?”

Harold's bow furrowed. “I don't watch kid's shows.”

Phil said, “thank _you_ ,” and left.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“What do you call this place again?” Dave asked.

“Barmageddon,” Phil and Ollie said.

“Right, is this a...” Dave trailed off, making a limp gesture.

Phil sighed. “No. We had to find a new place. The regulars kept asking Ollie if he wanted a lap dance.”

“Or if I could hold their coats.” Ollie looked grimly at his pint. His walking cast was wrapped in day-glo fabric tape, covered with faked signatures of various stage actors. Phil admired the handiwork. Of course his Olivier was lopsided, it was too close to the edge.

“So what's the plan?”

Phil looked at Ollie. Ollie made a go-ahead gesture.

“The next play is an inter-activity play. The idea is, we invite audience members up to tell their own stories. Then we act them out.”

“And it's about?”

“Prejudice.”

“Right, so nothing new then.” Dave sipped the foam off his pint.

Ollie stiffened. Phil got ready to launch himself between them when Ollie gasped out: “her!”

Phil immediately looked out for Linda. Nowhere in sight. But there was someone who had just bellied up to the bar, someone almost familiar.

Dave gaped. “The orange juice girl!”

Phil did a double take. “Pam Doove here? Can't be.”

“Could be.” Dave leaned in. “Heard she's hit a slump. Now everyone's doing her thing, she can't find much work.”

“Really?” Phil leaned in, too. “Ollie, do you think—“

Ollie looked like he'd been hit in the face. He was staring intently at the rather winsome young woman.

“Pam. _Doove,”_ he breathed.

“Ollie,” Phil asked, “are you all right?”

Ollie grabbed his arm. “Phil. _Phil_. Think of the plays I could write! Something about Tourette's, like ' _Help, I'm Talking and I Can't Shut Up_ '? And no more stuffing socks full of sand down Dave's jumper. We could have a _real_ woman. Think of the variety! Think of the theater!”

“She's not too bad to look at, either,” Phil said, amused. Ollie nodded, only half listening.

“Right. I'm going to draw up a temporary contract on this napkin. Dave, you go—”

“No,” Phil said simply.

Ollie drew back as if swatted. He was angry.

“No? You don't want her stealing your spot—”

“You talk to her.”

Ollie's face fell. He looked over at Pam, then at Phil, then at Pam.

“Are you sure...” he faltered. Phil fixed his shirt collar.

“You'll do fine,” he said, “if a gaggle of Camden bears can find you cute, I’m sure she can.”

Ollie flushed. “Erm. Er. Right.”

Phil swatted him on the back. “Quit stalling and get over there.”

Dave sidled up as Ollie marionette-walked across the room.

“Now you're his wingman? That's a switch.”

Phil held up a finger. “Hear that?”

Dave cocked his head. Nothing but the background murmur filled the air. It wasn't peak hours yet, the hush was only punctuated by the football game showing behind the bar.

“Quiet. If we play our cards right, he'll be bearable for a couple of months. Maybe longer.”

Dave shook his head. “Ollie's such a prick.”

Phil watched Ollie gesturing exuberantly across the room. “Yeah,” he said fondly, “a total arsebag.”

 


End file.
